


Not your housekeeper

by Emma_Lynch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, F/M, Happy Ending, Love, Original Character(s), POV Alternating, POV First Person, POV Outsider, Post-Season/Series 03, Self-Discovery, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:47:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 19,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26285905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma_Lynch/pseuds/Emma_Lynch
Summary: Mrs Hudson insists she's no housekeeper but she does take care of her Baker Street boys, so when she has to go away for a few months, she realises they will require a degree of supervision. Mess, explosions, fridge experiments and the curious case of Sherlock's heart. It's going to need a very special person to take on Baker Street; it's going to take someone new.Sherlolly.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 131
Kudos: 94





	1. Situations Vacant

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and how lovely to be back.
> 
> This is a story of twelve chapters and mostly (although not all) told by an original character who acts as my narrator for the most part. 
> 
> I know, OC and first person, what WAS I thinking?!
> 
> However, be assured that I am true to form with my endless pursuit of Sherlolly happiness and that is the main focus of this tale.
> 
> I do hope you can join me (and it is wonderful to know what you think - always x),
> 
> Emma xx

Chapter 1

I suppose I've always liked things in order.

As a kid, I spent hours lining up my dolls in height order (sometimes in order of newness or - worst of all - favouritism). I was a fickle child, easily won over by a shiny head of hair or smart new outfit.

As I got older, nail varnish was arranged in wonderfully pompous sections of "pearlescent", "metallic", "pastel", "primary", and savagely binned if dried deposits affected lid removal or labels were seen to peel. Gosh, I even rejected one for being called "iridescent mauve" since I regarded anything mauve akin to varicose veins or old ladies' handkerchiefs.

I was quite a charmer, apparently.

As you might imagine, my bedroom was perpetually, compulsively ordered.

A huge fan of stationery, I had box files lining my lower shelves and chamfered file holders along the top. Pens (and writing implements in general) were coloured coded (separated into fine point, medium felt-tip, highlighter, biro) and vital to my day to day happiness. A Sharpie without a lid was not to be tolerated.

Bed linens were changed weekly (by my insistence, thus my disgruntled, hard-working mother showed me the control panel on the washing machine and wished me well) and carpeted areas were vacuumed every other day. I secretly checked the pantry, the fridge and freezer as well as the kitchen cupboards and wrote my parents long, convoluted and usually ignored shopping lists ("we have bleach, but one more assault from Charlotte's hair dye and Melanie's irritable bowel should put pay to that by Friday") and wrote endless duty rotas for my irretrievably lazy family, who continued to ignore what was expected of them until the day I left to travel then work in the city.

I mean, they said they'd miss me, but I know a sigh of relief when I hear one.

~x~

God, London.

Jobs were so easy to get and so easy to disappoint.

I mean, I was clearly meticulous and with high expectations, but descriptions of duties and subsequent rewards were less so. Soon, after too many failed recruitment attempts, I realised that prospective employers were more interested in the obsequious and servile - those willing to attend to people with poorly organised thoughts, and depressingly they weren't remotely interested in an original idea that might save them hours of wasted time searching through their woefully populated databases. They just wanted underpaid lackeys who said 'yes' a lot.

"Maybe data management isn't for you."

Cheap suit that had never seen the inside of a dry cleaners and a shirt pocket well-versed in leaky biros. Same piece of fluff had been hanging out of his back trouser pocket for three weeks in a row.

Yes I know, shocking.

"Maybe … " Looking at watch (cheap) and the clock not too discreetly over my shoulder.

Obvious he's forgotten to pack a sandwich again and is wondering when he can sneak out to Pret.

"Maybe take a few days to … mmm … have a rethink about office work in general. Maybe something more … um … independent. Where you're in charge of YOU!"

He actually pointed, clearly chuffed with his recall of the last staff training meeting all about boosting the growth mindset of your staff.

"You mean, work for myself? Build my own empire? I've only been in the city for three and a half weeks. Even Alan Sugar had a bit longer to hone his empire building."

An awkward silence followed, only punctuated by a loud and loquacious growl emanating from his neglected belly. He shuffled his file, seeming to end the interview and probably mentally relegating my details to the filing cabinet usually to be found on the floor and emptied nightly by the cleaning staff. I stared at the brown cardboard folder in his hand, like he was holding my chances at success right there, in his ill-qualified and barely cognisant paw.

"Give yourself a few days," he mumbled, gathering up some loose change from the top drawer and subconsciously waving my file towards the door (I clearly was meant to follow) and pushing back his chair.

"Think about your interests, but be honest - "

We stopped and actually made eye contact for the first time that day.

"Be honest with yourself. It's not what you think you should do, but what you were born to do. Find your strengths and the rest will just follow. Trust me," he said.

Then, for the first time in three and a half weeks, I looked into those deep-set, city weary eyes and I smiled.

"OK," I said. "I'll give it a go."

And you know what? Within a week I did, and my life was never, ever the same again.

Thank God.

~x~

She was at least 20 years older than my mum but she had sharp eyes that missed nothing and a strong will and clarity of purpose I'd rarely even come across in people my own age.

"You seem to know your way around a dustpan and brush."

She looked at me with those eyes over the edge of a black, leather clipboard which I suspected she'd never held before in her life. As it wavered during our tour of the house, I noticed a neatly typed, bullet-pointed list which she ticked precisely every now and again as we spoke of my experience and general outlook regarding housekeeping.

"Unusual for a girl your age I might have thought."

She peered and I endeavoured to look as un-nightclubby and as un-youthfully disordered as possible.

"I like order," I said, firmly. "I love knowing where everything is and keeping things spick and span (I like old-fashioned phrases and thought she might too). I just think life is simpler when things are organised; things run more smoothly and life is just … better."

She smiled.

"It's going to be three months at least you know. My sister's been in Queensland for three years and this is my first visit. Her husband isn't himself and she needs me a bit more than she's letting on." She wrinkled her nose, confiding.

"I'm very trustworthy. I've house-sat for lots of people, all over the country."

(Basingstoke and Birmingham to be entirely accurate, when my parents and siblings were reaching critical mass last summer.)

"But this is a little more than house-sitting dear." She leaned forward, conspiratorially lowering her voice even though I knew all three stories of the house were currently empty.

"Sometimes, it can be a bit like baby-sitting." She pointed above her head.

"Your tenants?"

I had been told there were two, although they were seemingly not a couple and both professional men in their thirties. I smiled; I could handle that. They'd soon see my housekeeping rules would be worth adhering to. Certainly, I noticed their rooms looked tidy enough during the thirty second glimpse I'd had over her shoulder; plenty of people included skulls in their home decor without being considered weirdos (except my Goth sister who definitely was). I had also noticed crammed bookcases and some piled up petri dishes and glass vials which all pointed towards a couple of bumbling research types, probably from Brunel or maybe Royal Holloway, leafing through dusty research papers and setting up little projects of an evening. It sounded eccentric and almost sweet and I was sure that scientists would be immaculate and hygienic for the sake of accuracy, if nothing else.

"I'm good with people and routines," I say, breezily. "I'll be virtually invisible; they'll barely notice me."

She looked at me carefully, almost on the verge of words, but then re-calibrating them before saying:

"I've warned them, of course, although it's sometimes difficult to know what's sunk in and what hasn't."

(typical boffins I thought, indulgently)

"They're used to me flitting about, picking up after them, even though it's not really my job, being the owner of the house and all that."

She certainly didn't look like a typical owner of a central London three storeyed town house but I've learnt not to always make assumptions without knowing enough background information.

"But I have to admit, they are sometimes quite … well, persuasive really, and I find I'm taking up tea and ginger biscuits and picking up suits from the dry cleaners without really knowing how it happened."

"Maybe one of them has hypnosis as a hobby!"

I laugh, gaining in confidence as I'm sure she's got more than three quarters of that list ticked and the next three months will have me sorting, organising and cleaning around a couple of sweet academics, grateful for some decent ironing and a plate of gingernuts.

"Mmm," she looks thoughtful, putting down the clipboard and pulling the teapot towards us. "Not for a good while admittedly, but that was an evening I'd prefer to forget, especially since we lost so many roof tiles."

I didn't even raise an eyebrow, but sipped quietly until she said:

"Can you be in by Thursday? My flight's Friday afternoon but it'll give you time to settle in."

"Absolutely. You can count on me."

"Let's hope so dear," she raised her tea cup, eyes searching mine for some kind of deeper reassurances.

"For all our sakes."

~x~


	2. Assumptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The handover happens and decisions are made. 
> 
> What could possibly go wrong?

I didn't have many bags (cosmetics are boring) so the run from taxi to flat was relatively short-lived. But not short-lived enough to avoid a collision apparently.

"Goodness!"

"Oh crap!"

"Sorry!"

"So sorry!"

I held my teetering tower of Tupperware whilst the girl with the pony-tail stepped aside (both sides, all sides - she seemed very accommodating)

"Do you need to be upstairs?" I asked (idiot - she was carrying a case of what looked like vials and litmus paper and was wearing a lanyard that seemed to be from St. Bart's Hospital).

"Y-yes. I have important … stuff."

We looked at each other. She had the deepest of brown eyes and dimpled cheeks that held the hint of a blush, and I had to take a breath.

"You're the new … housekeeper." She spoke with knowledge.

"Moving-in day." I held up my hand which (appropriately) held a bucket. "Is there anything I can do?"

We both stood on the stair (the sixth) and caught a moment.

"You look like you've got enough to be getting on with, but if you wouldn't mind," she smiled (those dimples) and placed the vials carefully down inside my bucket.

"Could you pass these on? The boys are always either out or … busy."

" I can." I held the bucket all the tighter, and giving what I hoped was a smile of efficiency combined with friendliness.

"You've not met them."

Not a question.

"Not yet."

Her eyes cast downwards, long lashes brushing her cheeks, then looking up, straight in there.

"He's … they're really good tenants," said the brown-eyed girl, rather quickly, laughing nervously as she tried to get a measure of me without appearing to.

"Good," I said, adjusting my bucket. "Good to know."

~x~

My new employer of barely a week had closed the taxi door with a firmness not reflected in her demeanour as she lent daintily out of the window, small, gloved fingers gripping at its edge.

"Remember dear, bins on - "

"Thursday," I said, nodding, hoping to impress. "And recycling every other week; just put the green box next to Mrs Turner's back gate."

She nodded, but seemed to hesitate, seemingly unmindful of the punctuality of planes and ferocity of the London evening traffic.

"And did you see the earplugs I left for you - in the bathroom cabinet? You'll be grateful for them, I promise."

I nodded. Truthfully, I had grown up in a house cheek by jowl with aspiring trumpet players and, for one excruciating month, a potential cellist. I could handle a bit of violin playing of an evening, especially from an academic guy who'd probably been playing forever.

Yet still she waited, the thrum of the diesel engine punctuating the pause, like a metronome.

"I just wish you'd had a chance to meet them," she glanced up to the second floor windows which were still in darkness. Seemingly, her 'boys' had both been called away and weren't due back until Sunday morning. The excitement of a weekend conference, I imagined, would have exhausted them to the point of a weary hello and cold supper that first evening. I wasn't worried. I'd even bought the ham and cheese already.

Her gloved hands gradually loosened their tight grip on the window and I gave her my most reassuring smile. She was clearly unused to foreign travel and had probably lived in this locality for most of her life, marrying someone safe and never leaving her ten mile radius. I knew she was childless and had speculated much as to the mothering of her two 'boys' (she had told me their names more than once, but I clearly hadn't been listening; I'm pretty terrible with names but it won't be a problem, I'll just look at their post).

"The house will be fine, and so will everyone in it," I say, nodding to the taxi driver as she eventually sat back in her seat.

"Sometimes people might turn up, day or night, so don't be alarmed at irregular visitors."

I shook my head. It took a lot to shock me. Apart from Ms Dimple-cheeks (who's name also eluded me), I 'd seen no-one else yet.

"And that list of numbers I gave you, in case of emergencies - keep it safe, please." Her eyes twinkled bright from the dimness of the cab. "Usually it's all fine, but sometimes things can … escalate - you know?"

I nodded and stood up, ostentatiously looking at my watch.

"They'll barely know I'm here!" I waved after her, smiling from the pavement, and I just caught her final words:

"Oh, but they will!"

And she was gone.

~x~

By Sunday evening, I'd cleaned through the downstairs flat from carpet to curtains and back again. Floors were mopped or hoovered in the 'shared' areas (hall, stairs, landing) while windows were polished inside and out, particularly the kitchen window across from the bins in the yard (all manner of rusty stains and splashes combined for a grubby patina around the edges, blocking out the light, and now their gleam pleased me every time I walked to the kettle).

Through a recently acquired sense of restraint, I'd not entered the second floor flat since something told me it was only polite to actually meet its inhabitants before making merry with the Dyson and bleach.

Actually, that was a small lie.

Eyes averted from skulls, indoor graffiti (homage to Banksy?) and a frankly distressing skyscraper of medical journals blocking the dinning table from the breakfast bar, I had decided I would stock the fridge for the return of my (as of yet) unacquainted temporary tenants. I had a carrier bag groaning with Danish Blue, honey-cured ham, olives and the sprightliest of spring onions which, alongside the artisanal sourdough should satisfy the hungriest of travel-weary academics.

So, bread arranged prettily on a slab of cedar wood on the counter, I opened the fridge.

Oh my God.

I've seen some fridges in my time: my student days (and my sister was no respecter of dates for fromage frais, then my temping at Burger King, at KFC ...) but newts? Actual floating animals and their water weeds? Glutenous spawn and grimy petri-dishes stacked up next to the "I can't believe it's not butter", threatening to spill over into the salad drawer…

I closed the fridge, aware I was making judgements regarding people I had never met and hadn't had a chance to know I was planning to restock their fridge. They were scientists and sometimes labs were troublesome to reach and constantly overstocked with people's ephemera. Maybe the only place to sort your amphibians was actually your own fridge and that was… well, who was I to judge?

It was my first day and I wanted everything to be perfect.

I opened the fridge again and remembered how my employer considered her tenants; like eccentrics, like children almost.

Perhaps she saw this kind of thing time and time again and was merely trying to warn me regarding 'irregular visitors'?

Surely anyone returning from a working weekend deserved a fridge full of good food and drink (I'd included some lagers from the local microbrewery for goodness sake) rather than an overlooked vat of tadpoles?

I am impetuous, headstrong and decisive, and I made that decision.

No newts were getting in the way of my welcoming antipasto.

Not on my watch.


	3. Meeting The Tenants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a shaky start, Baker Street's newest resident begins to find her feet when she meets 'the boys'.

My dream of woodpeckers was driven into daylight by the insistent hammering at my fairly new front door.

It was, I deduced whilst pulling on my dressing gown, a fairly ordered arrangement of taps and pauses, almost like the person was struggling with his patience (and losing).

By 11pm I had given up awaiting my new tenants and vowed to greet them with waffles and syrups as the cock crowed the next morning. I hadn't heard a thing (god, those ear plugs had already been both a godsend and a buffer) and now the woodpecker had caught my attention.

I staggered forth across unfamiliar carpeting, wove around numerous unpacked bags and threw open my new door.

Jesus.

Oh for frick's sake.

Aquamarine eyes and deathly pallor stared down through dark, lank tendrils of hair. His skin was as fair as buttermilk but his jaw was set like a steel trap.

(I wouldn't, after all, be needing to look at his post)

"Hallo?"

"My newts?" It seemed ill-advised to assume that he would wait.

"Where are they?"

I recalled his considerable fame as well as his striking appearance, but decided I would address neither.

"Pleased to meet you Mr Holmes. I am your new housekeeper and I've left a lovely supper in your fridge."

He stood with the air of a person who was used to walking right in.

"Mrs Hudson's off to Australia but I'm here now and I'm going to be looking after the house. And yourselves."

Jesus, it was central London. Why did I not think a celebrity or moderately wealthy person was living here?

He was no dusty, absent-minded research scientist, bumbling about his rooms. He'd given people chances to rediscover their artworks, their heirlooms; to realise how their partners behaved behind their backs, to understand what the truth (however unpalatable) looked like…

He had an international reputation.

But I'd thrown away his newts.

"I needed to make room."

He was vibrating with energy. Tall (six feet, maybe more), spare and pacing with a barely-suppressed focus. He stopped and spread his long fingers and spoke slowly, like I was an oblivious puppy being trained.

"There were amphibians."

He looked at me: glacial.

"There were."

To his absolute credit, he waited.

"I removed them", I added, as if he needed clarification.

Sherlock Holmes, internationally acclaimed consulting detective, clearly needed fewer statements of the obvious and more in the way of an explanation.

I opened my mouth.

"Sherlock!"

The word flew down the darkened corridor, closely followed by its proponent, a shorter, fairer man in his late thirties wearing a cable-knit sweater and a much kinder expression.

"I told you to leave them in the backyard! Welcome to Baker Street," he held out his hand to me and I grasped it like a lifeline.

"John Watson, happy to meet you. This is my flatmate, Sherlock, and yes - he's always like this."

His tone was both teasing and affectionate and although the taller and more resentful of my tenants retained his scowl and unnerving surveillance of me, I felt him deflate a little and the situation seemed less hopeless.

"I didn't flush them down the loo," I made to ignore a humoured snort from John Watson. "I … er put them in the backyard, behind the bins."

"They were essential to a current investigation I am engaged in."

"More of a long shot, you said," commented his flatmate, drily.

"Refrigeration was a highly important factor affecting the timings of this case."

"Cold newts, hot newts, it hardly matters now, since you've just solved the damn thing. Sorry we're so late," he'd turned to me. "Things can get a bit unpredictable here at times. Mrs Hudson may have - ." He shrugged expectantly.

"She … er … she did mention comings and goings." I was clearly going to have to start listening more. This was a terrible start.

"Don't worry," John Watson patted me on the arm and smiled, crinkling his tired, navy blue eyes. "It was extremely kind to leave us food. Mrs Hudson rarely spoils us that much."

"Nor does she spoil …" Sherlock Holmes began, but a look from his friend diverted him. Instead, he folded his arms (very impressive tailoring) and tilted his head, watching me.

"You have recently been to the Far East, probably Thailand and have lived in the city for less than a month. You are not currently in a romantic relationship and have a slightly uncomfortable one with your siblings and parents."

My eyes widened. I'd read about this thing he did. I had picked up an article in Psychologist Magazine at the airport (on my way back from Chang Rai as it happened) and read about him and his ways of navigating a person's brain.

"The science of deduction," I said, out loud, leading to a raise of his eyebrow and a barely determinable sigh from John Watson.

"Sherlock, it's late and we all need some sleep - "

"It's the little things, isn't it?" I said, seeing a pique of interest replace indignation and deciding I much preferred that.

"The details that you notice, a deep level of observation, paying attention to the separate elements to bring it all together, in a … a … "

"A deduction," he finished, quietly as I looked down at the remnants of henna around my knuckles, my knotted, jade bracelet; even across at the labels on my luggage and the few pictures I'd brought with me (of our dogs).

He'd seen it all; seen part of me without so much as a word being spoken.

"Quite so. Well, the hour is certainly late and I have a rather overbearing schedule tomorrow, as I am sure, do you."

"I've some plans for the laundry," I offered, relieved that the newts had been relegated.

Sherlock Holmes turned on his heel and nodded.

"Just to reiterate, the little things you comment on are my bread and butter, and they did include those creatures, so for future reference - "

"Check with you first whenever I can?"

"No, check with me first always."

And as I watched my brand new tenants walk down the hall before being swallowed up by darkness, I realised that he'd never checked if those deductions had been right.

I guessed he didn't need to.

~x~

After a fairly restless hour or so of cheek-flaming recriminations regarding my new position, I finally got some modicum of rest and was up bright and early, organising the back kitchen area which Mrs Hudson had grandly entitled her 'laundry room'. My tenants had been up early too, confirming Mr Holmes' prediction of an 'overbearing schedule'. Upstairs pacing, I decided, was further reason for adopting Mrs Hudson's advice about earplugs.

Doctor Watson gave me a cheery wave on his way out ("surgery calls - people never seem to realise I have a day job too!") and stopped momentarily to make sure I was OK.

"For what it's worth, I think you're already doing a cracking job. A sock index sounds just what's needed in Baker Street."

I looked at him for a moment until I realised he was joking.

"And don't worry about - " he nodded up the stairwell. "He can take a bit of getting used to but he's actually pretty great. An occasional arsehole, but a brilliant friend."

I smiled, feeling the warmth of his sincerity.

"I like him," I said decisively.

"You do? Well, most people don't say that on their first meeting."

"What do they say?"

But he just grinned, pushing through the big front door.

"See you later," he said.

~x~

I had a drill bit in my teeth and half a dozen useless screws scattered about the laundry room when a voice from nowhere startled the metal from my mouth, scattering the screws to the four corners of everywhere.

"I've an important meeting in Whitehall this morning; would you mind directing any deliveries upstairs? I'm expecting several items from some of my … associates."

"Sure … of course."

"Hopefully, none of the items will require refrigeration," he added.

Sherlock Holmes knelt down and retrieved the drill bit from besides the washing machine.

"I see you found Mrs Hudson's drill. It probably won't help that you're left handed but there is a grip adaptor under the sink."

"It's perished."

He was still dressed immaculately, this time with a sweeping, heavy coat topped with a high collar. It had a single red buttonhole which drew the eye. He looked exactly like every magazine article, every newspaper front page, every Instagram story posted about him; I half expected the deerstalker...

"I cannot be late for this meeting," he was already texting with both thumbs and frowning at the results.

"A client?" He was walking towards the door and into the hallway, so I followed him.

He looked at me keenly.

"An idiot," he said, hand on the coat rack. "My brother," added Sherlock Holmes, tossing something towards me (which I thought quite optimistic considering my earlier performance with the drill parts).

"If you put it on the boil wash it wouldn't be the end of the world," he deadpanned, making me snort a very ungainly burst of laughter down my nose, which I instantly regretted, gripping the deerstalker hat even tighter.

But he was again striding to the door, coat sweeping behind him, phone shoved into a pocket and already a veritable force of nature, about to hit the streets of London. I am rarely that impressed by my fellow man, but the last twelve hours had surely sucked me down the Baker Street rabbit hole.

"Oh!"

He'd been stopped in his tracks and I assumed one of his 'associates' had arrived early with various dubious bits of criminal ephemera to be stashed appropriately about the already inordinately crammed flat of 221B.

"Is this a bad time?"

"Certainly not."

It was a woman's voice; it was oddly familiar.

"It's just I had been … Well, I couldn't sleep yesterday because of the … you know, the building works opposite, so I got to thinking about the Honeychurch enzyme cultures we talked about."

"You mean the latent endocrine on sample 38? I was not happy with that reading at the time."

Oh, it was the dimples girl; Maisie? Millie? She was going to make him late…

"Look, you're in a hurry, you're rushing out. I'm sorry, I should have messaged you - "

I held my breath as I held the hat. I feared for poor Melanie.

"You're exhausted Molly Hooper, come in immediately and drink something."

Suddenly, the black door flew wide and a corolla of light from the street surrounded them as he, all urgency diminished, all furore flown, ushered this small, weary girl into the dimly-lit hallway. I stood, searching for a role and then found it.

"I'm just about to put the kettle on," I smiled, and she (Molly - Molly Hooper!) smiled right back. "And I've made some cheese scones if you've not had time for breakfast."

Her tired face was lit from within.

"How kind," she said. "Isn't that nice, Sherlock?"

Important meeting with an idiot sibling seemingly forgotten, Mr Holmes (Sherlock) nodded at me (with the barest tinge of a smile, but a smile nonetheless) and escorted Molly Hooper up those seventeen stairs, all the while talking.

"So, you think the viral load was peaking around the time of death?"

"If time of death was accurate - remember the thermometer disappearing, then mysteriously reappearing?"

"Oh goodness, yes! I'd forgotten that little pantomime (Anderson owes me several hours overtime for that!)"

"I can't help thinking that if we boiled the hair follicle before trying the salination test …"

So, I watched them slowly climb the stairs; meetings, associates' deliveries and most certainly myself forgotten, and speculated a little more on the last twelve hours and the everyday uses of the science of deduction.

~x~

A/N: Apologies for the 'pigeon science' but I just can't help myself. ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the 'pidgin science' - I just love doing it though! ;)


	4. A Study in Filing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baker Street's new housekeeper gradually takes things in hand, but is it possible to go too far ?

Chapter 4

So the days progressed into weeks and before I even realised, it had been a fortnight of myself in my new position as housekeeper to the world's only consulting detective and his friendly doctoring flatmate.

For the most part, the days where I kept my head down and busied myself with common or garden home economics were the quiet and uneventful ones. Sometimes, on those days, I really did feel like a housekeeper.

New shelves in the pantry passed unnoticed since all joinery happened while they were out. Doctor Watson ("call me John for God's sake!") had a girlfriend (Maria?) so was absent for several evenings each week, whilst Mr Holmes was in most evenings, often on a laptop (there were several), his phone, or stepping across piles of dusty books and pamphlets, searching for things.

I was increasingly tempted to suggest methods of cutting down the time spent on this searching (I had actually devised my own cataloguing system in college which several of my friends took on board - well, I say 'friends'... ) but nothing about his demeanour ever suggested 'I'd love to hear what you have to say' so I kept my counsel.

Sometimes I felt like the new scholarship girl at a posh prep school.

As well as checking in with him about everything (well, most things in actual fact) I occasionally had the genuinely thrilling task of ushering in actual clients who wanted to consult with him. Most were pre-arranged and he would email their appointments so I'd be available to let them in. Sometimes, on these occasions, I felt like a butler.

"To give the full effect!" I enthused one morning. "That's genius!"

He frowned at me from the mantelpiece where there seemed to be a knife lodged into a pile of letters.

"I'm unsure as to the 'effect' you are making reference to, but I can promise today's list is as far from 'genius' as it's possible to be."

I stepped over a pile of tomes, dislodging a plume of dust which floated in the air, awaiting gravity to bring it back down to the next pile.

"No missing fiances or misappropriated inheritances? No strange dogs barking in the night-time?"

He stared at me for a moment, as though I was speaking Mandarin (which he could probably understand anyway) and then proceeded to roll up his left sleeve and slap on a nicotine patch (it wasn't the first that day). I was momentarily grateful for the lack of ashtrays in 221B and he read my thoughts as usual.

"I miss smoking more with every tedious client who sits there," he nodded to the chair opposite his own.

Sometimes I felt like his secretary.

I consulted the list.

"You have a Mr Roylott at 10.30."

"Insurance scam. Already been in touch with the Prudential."

"Then why - ?"

"I need him to tell me where he buried the rabbits. Shouldn't be difficult."

"Rabbits?"

"Poisoned rabbits. He owned a prize-winning greyhound. My 11 o'clock has bigamy written all over it and the couple at 11.30 - "

I looked at the list again.

"Mr and Mrs Ashbourne."

"Fake marriage; daughter pretending to be her own mother. Morally corrupt but undeniably dull."

He stabbed the knife savagely back into the mantle via a pile of letters and I idly wondered if there was any wood filler in my toolbox.

"Then why see them? Surely a refusal or just an email would do?"

Sherlock suddenly hopped over a selection of manilla folders with 'Confidential - Do not remove from St. Bart's Hospital' printed in large red letters on their fronts and lay prostrate across the sofa, pulling a blue silken dressing gown about him (I had learnt that the sharp suits weren't always worn around the house).

"It breaks up the day and pays the bills. Criminals can be appallingly lazy at times, but good cases come when you least expect them."

He lay a forearm over his pale forehead in the manner of a fading Victorian heroine so I busied myself clearing the breakfast dishes, mentally planning an assault on the dishwasher which was not always used for washing only dishes.

As I opened the door, he turned to add:

"Oh, and please remember to be judicial when answering the door; not everybody should be coming in. Clients on list - yes, Lestrade - yes (if not with Donovan), Anderson - no and Mycroft - "

"Mycroft - absolutely not," I finished.

He nodded from the sofa, smiling with brotherly malice.

I put down a plate and contemplated his long, pyjama clad legs, his scruffy hair and bare feet; he sometimes looked about thirteen years old.

"And Molly, Dr. Molly Hooper? Do I let her in?" I said, watching him shift and colour ever so slightly.

"Of course," he mumbled, picking up a conveniently placed pamphlet to read. "Always. Naturally."

And then I realised that sometimes, very occasionally, I felt like his mum.

~x~

It was only a matter of time.

Two uneventful weeks had me becoming a bit too comfortable at Baker Street - complacent really - which I came to learn was a mistake.

Like turning your back on a hissing rattlesnake or an unripe pear, your poor timing could only result in a sudden, venomous bite or a disappointingly mushy piece of fruit.

So I told myself (but did I listen?)

Undoubtedly the system was sublime; it was beautiful.

It was born of my design, of my yearning to provide a distinctive and efficient method of finding the papers you wanted without having to trawl through endless, dust-filled pamphlets, ancient, crumpled pages wrongly ordered or hidden under lamps, fruit bowls, laptops or even (worryingly) a real, human skull.

Coloured files and a riotous rainbow of dividers and polyurethane pockets were procured on the Monday of my third week at Baker Street, and it was advantageous that I was always the first port of call for the postman since I wanted it all to be a surprise for Mr Holmes.

Spread out, all bright and new and shiny in their packaging across Mrs Hudson's kitchen table (I had doubled its size since fixing the leaf support on the left hand side), I surveyed my purchases and felt a real surge of excitement, anticipating both the act and the result.

Wait until he sees you all I thought, all neatly lined in both date and alphabetical order, angled file holders holding publications with easy access across an old bookcase I'd found in the dark, spider-filled shed in the backyard (that was a project for another day - another month even). A quick sanding and a lick of varnish was all it needed to look quite presentable amongst the melee of eclectic furnishings in 221B.

All I needed now was the time to sort, label and arrange, a not inconsiderable task.

Then on Wednesday morning, with unusually opportune timing, I showed a rather agitated and flustered DI Lestrade upstairs. Three of his shirt buttons were undone and his tie had been loosened and tightened quite a few times prior to his arrival. Within ten minutes, three sets of thundering male footsteps clattered back down and into a waiting police car. I noted a couple of overnight bags and Mr Holmes throwing on his second oldest Belstaff which usually indicated a visit to the countryside.

"Shall I not be bothering with the supper tonight?" I yelled through the slamming of car doors and crackling radios.

"Two nights," replied Sherlock, "possibly three if Mr Milverton is determined enough."

Dr. Watson mumbled something from within the car, eliciting a nod from his flatmate.

"An associate, a William Wiggins, will be calling tomorrow. Please furnish him with the red envelope on the mantelpiece (more dagger fodder I mused) and don't leave him on his own. Thank you."

He dipped his head back into the car and they sped away, with just John's hand waving from the back window before they disappeared out of sight around the corner onto Marylebone Avenue.

Happy hunting, I smiled to myself. Now it's time to get some twenty-first century streamlined efficiency into Baker Street.

~x~

Just over twenty-four hours later, I had become so obsessively engrossed in my project that I found myself increasingly annoyed by any interruptions or distractions from the outside world. The Tesco delivery, two Amazon parcels (both for me) and even a couple of tourists with huge, telephoto lenses, wanting a photograph of 'our special Mr Holmes.' I got rid of them politely, simultaneously praying that our special Mr Holmes hadn't apprehended his latest blackmailer in record time and was, this minute, speeding back from Hertfordshire to find a new filing system that was only three quarters complete. I wanted the big reveal, the astonished appreciation.

"It's not a problem," I would say. "I just wanted to do my bit to help, to keep the streets of London safe."

But the fifth interruption was neither delivery nor tourist, but a wiry, beady-eyed and badly-dressed millennial whose manner was shifty and whose hands were never still.

"William Wiggins?" I couldn't allocate him a 'mister' for reasons I wasn't proud of.

He nodded, attempting to catch a cigarette in his mouth, but just missing. He dropped his gaze but unexpectedly offered his (surprisingly clean) hand.

"Mister 'olmes told you about me then?" He looked longingly over my shoulder. "Is 'e in? Shall I go up?"

He coughed a little raggedly and I suddenly remembered that magazine article mentioning Sherlock Holmes's 'homeless network'.

"He's out actually, on a case."

He nodded sagely.

"Yeah, Milverton I reckon. Knew that one was a pot comin' to the boil." He coughed again and I felt the chill in the air even from the doorstep.

"Why don't you come in and … maybe have a cup of tea," I blurted, surprised at how soft I was getting.

He was across the door in moments. I nearly asked him to wait in the hallway while I got the letter from upstairs, but I remembered my instructions regarding not leaving him alone, so the only option seemed a clear one.

"Come up with me," I said, adding, "excuse the mess but I'm developing a project, a new system to help Mr Holmes with his work."

We both stood at the doorway of 221B's sitting room, surveying piles and card wallets and folders seemingly as far as the eye could see.

"It's a work in progress," I offered, hurriedly, not enjoying William Wiggins' expression. "You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs and all that."

"An' 'e asked you to do all this?" All the emphasis was on 'asked' and I felt, for the first time, a sudden lurch of uncertainty and an uncomfortable amphibian-based flashback.

"Mr 'olmes is right particular about his papers an' stuff," he added, hands in pockets and shuffling his feet on the threshold. I stepped carefully across my carefully arranged piles and extricated the red envelope from beneath the knife; it felt like money.

William shoved it quickly into one of the many pockets in his shell suit without checking it and I noted the degree of trust this man had in my employer.

"Let's have that tea before you go," I said, closing the door carefully. Another two or three hours was all I needed; let Mr Milverton be just a little bit more slippery for a little bit longer and everyone would be happy as clams.

~x~

"Four?"

"Yeah."

"Four sugars? You sure?"

"Yeah. I'm tryin' to cut down." He grinned and I realised he was kidding me. He sipped his syrupy brew and nodded in approval. "Ta," he said. "Never 'ad tea in Mrs 'udson's kitchen before," he looked around appreciatively. "Cosy."

He stood at the sink but I gestured to a chair and he nodded again.

"You're alright," he said, taking three biscuits off the plate. "I reckon you're doin' a good job."

"I hope so," I said, thinking of the newts again. "Mr. Holmes seems to be the sort of man you want to … impress, I suppose." I was being very honest to this virtual stranger with the observant eyes. "You want him to think well of you."

William ("call me Bill") sat back in his chair, crunching a biscuit and surveying me; he was a very good listener.

"I get it," he said, speculatively, "but don't try too hard to change 'im. He 'is who he 'is, chaos an' all. Dr. Watson gets it; Molly gets it."

He was not at all what I expected but I remained adamant.

"The dust, the mess, the lack of structure; no-one could find a thing. He'll definitely prefer order - it's worked for everyone I've done it for."

He shrugged, slurping down the last of the tea and getting up (I do like a person who knows when it's time to leave).

"Yeah, I'm sure it'll be fine."

In the hallway, just at the door, a sudden thought struck me.

"This might sound - weird, but I didn't like to ask anyone else: Molly Hooper - is she … are they …?"

It was my turn to shuffle in the doorway, but he didn't recoil in horror, merely smiled.

"Sherlock 'olmes is not boyfriend material I reckon," he said, watching me.

"Sorry, I don't mean to be nosy, but they seemed to have this - "

I searched for the appropriate word. " - chemistry? I didn't want to make assumptions, but it was something I noticed."

"It's OK, everybody sees it. Well, I say everybody…"

I hadn't imagined it then. The way they interacted, the way his eyes followed her every moment they were together, his total lack of affectation in her presence; everybody saw it.

Everybody, it seemed, but him.

~x~


	5. Who you really are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock deals out some home truths but fails to see what's right in front of him.

Chapter 5

As soon as I saw his glacial, blank eyes I knew.

His hand rested on the immaculate and beautifully populated bookcase before lifting it and rubbing his long, pale fingers together. Nothing fell from them.

"No dust," he said, so tonelessly, as if to corral his absolute fury.

"Dust is eloquent. Dust is useful."

John stood at the sitting room door, still holding his overnight bag.

"Sherlock," he said calmly, "this was done from a good place, so can you just - "

"Everything was disordered, everything was jumbled! It took you ages to find things." I felt childish in my delivery but had to defend myself.

He ran a hand along my lovingly arranged array of folders; clean, bright and now utterly hateful.

"Everything was exactly where I put it. I knew where everything was and how long it had been there and now you've taken the contents of my brain attic and trussed them up into this - this ludicrously sanitised rainbow!"

"Sherlock!"

"It's going to take weeks, months to repair." He looked through file after file and I felt prickling, hot tears threatening behind my eyes, but I would not let him see.

He stopped, looking at me and I felt something shift slightly as he sighed.

"You - you presumably meant well by this," he encompassed my crimes with a sweep of his hand. "But I must tell you that I did not invite this and nothing either in my demeanour nor explicit instructions has ever hinted I would welcome it."

I was breathing hard, digging my nails into my palms, feeling the heat flood my face and wishing I'd never set foot into this place and tried to impress this man with my good intentions.

"This," said Sherlock Holmes, no longer icy but humiliatingly attempting to explain, as if was slow and stupid.

"This is not for me but for you. This is your project for your vanity and does little but illustrate how very little you actually know me or how I work."

John heroically chased after me down the stairs, but I could not look at him, such was the depth of my humiliation. I didn't even try to wipe away the hot tears as they soaked my burning cheeks. Anger, embarrassment, shame, horror ... so many emotions, I lost count.

"God, I'm so sorry!" He knew better than to try and touch me, instead pulling open the fridge and pouring me a large glass of wine which he handed over.

"Drink it - doctors orders," he said, trying a smile.

I downed it.

"I told you he could be an arsehole," he said as I handed the glass back, hiccuping like a small child. "I should have warned you about those sodding journals. He is obsessed about them but anyone - anyone human - can see what an fantastic effort you've made with them."

"No," I hiccuped, savagely wiping any last remnants of pride away with the tears.

"No?"

"He's right. It's doubly humiliating because I can see that. I did it for me. To show him, to show off really."

"You did it to bloody well help him, so don't forget that."

I sat down heavily at the previous housekeeper/landlady's kitchen table and wondered if he would sack me.

"I've always been wilful - arrogant really - about what I think is right. He was pretty accurate about me and my family; I was always bossing them about and imposing my opinions on them. It made things … difficult for everyone. It wasn't good at Uni either. I didn't have many friends."

John sat down opposite me and those navy eyes were so full of understanding that I felt like crying again.

"You must think I'm pathetic," I said, sounding as dramatic as I felt. "I'll pack my stuff. I can get the first train tomorrow."

"You can't go," he smiled, ruefully. "You're damn good at your job, even Sherlock knows that. Also, you and him - "

I looked up, waiting.

"You've got far more in common than either of you realise."

~x~

Of course I didn't leave (nor was I asked to) but things were very quiet after that and interaction with my tenants was pretty minimal.

I knew their habits well (and I'm positive Sherlock Holmes knew mine) so it was relatively easy to avoid each other, bar a few awkward exchanges on the staircase ("no, after you") or by the bins (he'd given up on the patches but John didn't know).

John would come down and collect supper after I texted and always made me feel I was doing a brilliant job, even when I wasn't (drilling right handed was still an issue and the dishwasher was not responding to my rudimentary plumbing skills) but Sherlock would let his clients in himself now, which I took to heart a bit more than I should have done.

I knew the kind of man he was but I'd still insisted on imposing my ideas and riding roughshod over the fact that other people sometimes don't agree that you know best, and even if they did know, they didn't care.

I didn't need him to like me, but I thought I'd had his respect and feeling its loss was awful. Like a morning mantra in the mirror (yuck) I told myself daily that other people's opinions didn't matter and 'you be you' and the world would follow suit, and why did I need the approval of an arrogant, uptight, entitled and supercilious man-child who wouldn't know a genuine emotion if it came up and bit him?

But I liked him, and it's very hard for me to un-like someone until I'm ready.

And I clearly wasn't ready.

~x~

We were well into week 5 when The Letter came.

Mr Holmes was very much an emailer but many of his would-be clients preferred the nostalgic appeal of putting pen to paper, some even using fountain pens for that extra touch of Victoriana. Unless there was a matter of urgency, this indulgent quirk amused him (hence the stabbing on the mantelpiece I suppose). John had told me that some adversaries and criminals could also occasionally send him letters, but we agreed this was nothing more than attention seeking (so many criminal masterminds are inveterate attention seekers apparently), so The Letter was most unusual.

That morning, I had taken up the post (we were polite and business-like over post) which appeared humdrum but for one thick manilla envelope in duck-egg blue. I desperately wanted to look at the postmark and check the ink, but I'd learnt my lesson in interference and didn't want to mess things up again. When he swooped straight on it, however, I knew I'd been right. No stabbing onto the mantel, but a knife used for slitting it open (after a fair amount of close examination, including sniffing) I noted as I poured the tea.

John had been updating his Blog ( I confess I'm an avid Blog lurker) but stopped in his tracks, looking up suddenly.

"Is that from who I think it is?"

"From whom - yes," he held it up to the light, then sniffed it again.

"Traces of bitumen and cedar wood."

Sherlock's eyes were glowing, his hands moving quickly as he sent multiple texts, the letter lying like a talisman on the coffee table between us all, an innocent pale blue amongst the shabby newspapers and journals.

"Black Peter," breathed John, closing his laptop and looking for his phone. "I can't believe he replied, after all this time."

"Ego," muttered his flatmate. "They can't resist; it gets them every time, although I must admit I had all but given up checking that particular lure."

He was pulling up gloves, phones and what looked like a large fish hook out of a crate in the corner and making towards the 'lab' in the kitchen.

"Molly has the samples, she's in a taxi now. Five minutes. And to think - " He stood still momentarily, shaking his head. "I actually told her to throw them away, but she didn't, and thank the Lord for that!"

By the time Dr Hooper arrived, Lestrade was on his way and Mr Holmes had narrowed down the whereabouts of this particular correspondent to three different places along the Limehouse docks (I make myself busy; I listen).

Apparently, Black Peter was not his name, but rather the name of his boat, a boat that my tenant (and most of Scotland Yard) were interested in finding.

I was enjoying being mostly invisible, bringing coffee and showing everyone up to the hub of operations in 221B.

Molly wore a brightly patterned shirt and faun Zara trousers from the early noughties but as she sat at the table with him and the box of microscope slides, she seemed luminous.

They were taking it in turns, peering into his microscope, scribbling notes, arguing (but not really) and all of his edges were gone. Several times their hands were so close across the table, they almost touched, but like an electric force field sparking its warning, no actual contact was made and I just couldn't stop looking.

Eventually, I'd given up answering the bell, leaving the door on the latch and heavy, Met issue boots constantly thumping up and down the stairs. Before long though, I could tell decisions had been made and they were all relocating to Limehouse in three different surveillance teams. I busied around collecting cups and dropped papers, helped partially by Molly.

"Thanks for all this," she smiled, dimples bright. "And thank you for that scone recipe. I took some into work and they might just have scored me a promotion - oh, hang on…"

I turned to see Mr Holmes, holding one slide in each hand, helpless as his magnification goggles refused to drop down over his eyes. She had seen it in a nanosecond, stepping across and gently pulled them down for him.

"There you go," whispered Molly Hooper, amidst the melee of large policemen, crackling radios, rattling stairs and several loud voices simultaneously using mobile phones.

"Thank you," replied Sherlock, pale eyes huge, magnified and ever so much the windows of his heart.

"Now you can't see me properly," she smiled, still inches away from his face as he still held both the slides and her gaze.

"I can always see you Molly," he said, blinking as the room pulsed and swarmed about them.

It could easily have been moments or hours had passed, then DI Lestrade yelled an order and slides were packed up, phone calls ended and they were all off into the darkening evening and it was like nothing had ever taken place.

So, the new, un-interfering me was faced with a dilemma.

I had made a vow to keep my own counsel but what if meddling was not only preferable, but utterly essential? What if I was absolutely certain that my 'assistance' would encourage happiness? Weren't all bets off when love was in the mix? There were things I could do, there were things that should be done.

I sat down wearily in Mrs Hudson's kitchen with a sink full of tea cups and a sinking feeling in my gut.

It was certainly time for a reality check.

Since Sherlock Holmes couldn't trust me with his filing, what on earth made me think he was going to trust me with his heart?

Nope. I'd been burnt once. This one was in the lap of the gods.

~x~


	6. Gratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, even the most assured people need a helping hand.

**Chapter 6**

The woodpecker was back and I blearily searched for my phone in the darkness.

"Hang on!" I hissed as the tapping on my door grew more insistent.

I knew it could only be one person and by that token, I knew also I was probably in trouble. Can a deductive genius actually read minds rather than just appear to? I'd uttered no words about my aborted match-making intentions so why now (at 3.42 am) was Sherlock Holmes knocking at my door?

Was he injured? (no; John or hospital, obviously)

Had they caught the owner of Black Peter? Was Sherlock Holmes so deliriously happy about it that he wanted to share a glass of champagne with me to celebrate ?

(Highly unlikely)

Had he seen me staring? Deduced my observations and anticipated (based on past experience) I would try and interfere?

I paused, taking a breath.

Perhaps I was overthinking things a little. The early hours and a shock awakening had befuddled my synapses, making me both sluggish and paranoid.

God.

My hand hovered over the latch as I prepared to greet his discontent.

"Please open the door," came his calm, measured tones from the other side.

"I need your help."

~x~

Sherlock stood in the middle of his sitting room like a man in the eye of a tornado.

"I've looked everywhere," he said blankly, strain showing beneath his eyes, in his clenched hands. "I sent John to bed at 1 am and have been looking ever since."

The Letter.

The cedar wood and bitumen-scented missive from a proven serial killer which held so many clues and so much potential cadence in a court of law was missing. Without it, even with the apprehension of John Hopley Neligan and possession of his craft would not necessarily result in a conviction.

And it was gone.

I quelled a rising panic because I was suddenly, inexplicably in my comfort zone. My family lost things - Every. Single. Day.

"When did you last have it?"

He looked tired, truculent; he looked thirteen again.

"I thought I'd put it in my jacket pocket," he patted his chest; the ghost of where it should have been.

"It's not lost Mr Holmes."

He shook his head, raking long fingers through dark tendrils made damp by the early morning mist. The dank, estuary stench still hung about him like miasma, like defeat.

"You don't understand," his eyes met mine, bright, almost feverish. "I don't lose things."

I realised what it had cost him to come to me, particularly in light of our recent disagreement and so wanted to touch him, to reassure, but couldn't risk it.

"Everyone loses things, but they're rarely truly gone, just mislaid."

He looked at me carefully.

"You know where it is because you put it there," I said. "We just need a time machine to go back to when that was."

And slowly, miraculously, a tiny smile crooked the corner of his mouth and defeat disappeared like that morning mist with the first shaft of sunlight.

"It's just as well I have one then isn't it?" he said.

~x~

People with eidetic memories can use them, apparently, to walk through their memories like a reader walks through a library or a house, taking books from shelves and turning to the pages they wanted. Apparently, many other people could learn to do this too, especially if they had good pictorial memories or good visualisation techniques, like the ones used in meditation.

Now, although I would say I had a fairly vivid imagination (as demonstrated several times earlier), I hadn't tried to meditate since the White Temple in Chiang Rai (the skulls had been very distracting) but was definitely willing to try.

Sherlock Holmes and I sat, cross-legged on the floor of his paper-strewn sitting room at 4 oclock in the morning, walking through our mind palaces.

"The letter was in duck-egg blue, laying across two newspapers," I said, surprising myself.

"The Times," said Sherlock, "and the London Evening News from Thursday."

(OK, but he'd had more practise)

"The letter was there until Dr Hooper arrived," I added, crunching my eyes tighter as if it could help. "But I don't recall it being there when Inspector Lestrade came in."

Sherlock Holmes paused, searching, peeling back the pages of his memories from eight hours ago. There had been such a throng of people, of comings and goings. I was getting muddled.

"When - when Molly came in (wearing a jumper's she's attempted to take to a charity shop at least twice but can't quite let go) I … I had the letter held in my hand … then Lestrade took a look and …"

"He gave it back, I remember him saying something!" I was almost triumphant.

"He said 'posh!', in reference to the weight of the paper," he added, with certainty.

"Yes! He did… then?"

I waited.

"Molly had brought the samples from the lab, they were on the table … she said … she said …"

He faltered, I opened my eyes, watching him.

"She said, 'I kept them all; it's a good job I never listen to you isn't it?' and I … " his face had lost its angles, its hardened shell.

"I said, 'you always listen, and I' - " his eyes snapped open.

"I know where it is," he said.

~x~

My hand was smaller and so, with his guidance, I reached down, between the coffee table and the edge of the sofa, where hundred year old floorboards had shifted and warped, leaving a narrow, paper-thin gap; a gap with the very corner of an expensively made envelope and stamp wouldn't quite fit through. I grasped it, hardly daring to believe it wouldn't be dislodged and fall into the crevasse it balanced on, and gingerly, infinitely slowly, lifted it until it lay, all pale and blue and rock-solid- evidence-like in the palm of my shaking hand.

He and I both inhaled a breath simultaneously before he took the letter and smiled a true and genuine smile.

"Remarkable," he breathed, pale eyes sparking as before, turning the letter over and over in his hands.

"Yep," I returned. "That memory trick thing is quite amazing."

"I didn't mean the mind palace," he said.

~x~

The next morning, they let me sleep in until way past eleven and when I eventually rose, the house was so quiet, I could even hear birdsong from the trees behind Mrs Turner's.

It was only when I opened my door that I saw the parcel (fast tracked from a pricey store up Kensington way) with a note attached. In the parcel was a beautifully packaged and perfectly sized left handed grip for my drill and I held it as I read the spidery scrawl of my tenant:

_Good Morning,_

_Please accept this small token in addition to a significant apology._

_You chose to help me when I had no right to expect your help and for that I will always be grateful._

_Thank you._

_I have emailed this afternoon's client list._

_Please bring tea in your own time (but also quite quickly)._

_Sherlock_

_(Mr Holmes is my father)_


	7. Shot to the heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Routines are made to be broken.

**Chapter 7**

Six weeks in and the routine at Baker Street (although a little more haphazard than I would have liked) was finally starting to make sense (to me at least).

I had a whiteboard next to the kitchen window so I knew who was in, who was out, who was visiting, as well as who shouldn't be allowed across the threshold. There was a grocery list which both John and I amended whenever we passed. We were also attempting to train Sherlock into adding to it but my expectations remained low, particularly since Sherlock Holmes could (and frequently had) survived for a week on a packet of Nice biscuits and a jar of coffee, not seeing the need for the odd red pepper, bag of spuds or loaf of white sliced.

Nevertheless

Skulls and daggers (and bullet holes? He refused to let me Polyfiller them) aside, we had a routine and I was thrilled to be setting a steady course rather than hitting storms and taking on water every five minutes (Black Peter had been put in dry dock by the way, pretty much the same as her owner).

Sherlock was as good as his word and although no further discussion was broached regarding The Night of the Disappearing Letter, I felt his trust: if not like a comfort blanket about my shoulders, certainly a pat on the back, or a solid handshake.

It was Monday morning and I'd been waiting for B&Q to deliver my shelving, in addition to Bill Wiggins and the lads from the Embankment arriving to paint Mrs Hudson's old shed ( DIY projects are living, breathing succubi, awaiting your input every second of the day).

I heard Sherlock's distinctive, light-yet-decisive tread down the stairwell but then a pause, different and telling, as he passed my door. Gleefully, I rose from my pea-shelling and stepped into the hallway.

"Need anything?" I smiled, all innocence, rewarded by a narrowing of his eyes.

"In fact, yes." He was all Belstaffed-up (second best), face a sweet picture of amused annoyance.

"I'm at the Old Bailey until six at least and they expect deliberation to go on into the night (man and wife, creating biohazards by injecting rats with bubonic virus). Could you please let Dr Hooper know I am unable to attend our meeting this lunchtime?"

(meeting her actually for lunch as they do most Tuesdays; we always refer to them as 'meetings' to avoid any awkward date-like connotations)

Leaning against the door frame, I folded my arms.

"How did you break your phone this time?"

He looked at me, blank.

"You could borrow John's? Just to message?"

"John's furious with me."

Not unusual, but I waited until he sighed.

"He feels I should be more careful with my ...devices."

"Ah, but lots of people drop their phones. I've done it lots of - "

"It was a bullet; a glancing blow. Typical overreaction."

Jesus.

They'd been out late the previous night and I'd noticed a few slamming doors but a bullet! Then I realised why it was his second best coat.

I composed myself, all gentle teasing forgotten.

"I'll call her," I said, "as soon as possible."

He nodded, turned on his heel and was chasing down the steps towards a taxi as I closed the door. For all the deerstalker headlines and the grateful peers of the realm shaking your hand, being a detective didn't seem quite so comic-book anymore.

**~x~**

Curiously, the potential call to Molly weighed heavy on me all morning.

It didn't help, certainly, that she was excruciatingly unavailable (no phones in the mortuary) which caused no end of anxiety and resulted in a wonky set of shelves and no sugary tea for Wiggins and his guys.

"Sorry Bill, but I have to go out." I was actually putting my coat on but I trusted him more than my tenant did so I offered him the key.

"S'alright," he grinned, both amiable and chilling. "I don't really need a key to get in."

Less than thirty minutes and 15 texts/attempted calls later, I was turning in from Giltspur Junction and straight into the startled face of Molly Hooper.

"Oh… sorry!"

"Oh… oh, so sorry!"

"Oh, my fault!"

"No, I was in a daze, sorry!"

She laughed, shuffling files and closing a flapping jacket. She still had the jumper.

"We have to stop doing this."

I stopped moving, feeling my heart hammer harsh and brittle in my chest, then:

"Sherlock can't make lunch and almost got shot."

We stared at each other and I felt the searing heat of words that could not be rescinded creep into my cheeks.

"No, I mean …"

But she touched my arm gently, stopping me.

"You're in shock," she said, bird-wing brows drawn down in concern. "I think we should go for a cup of strong coffee."

**~x~**

I literally had my head in my hands and was quite surprised to feel them shaking. She sat down, all silken hair over one shoulder and dark shadows of fatigue ghosting beneath soft, brown eyes, and placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of me, along with a KitKat (four fingers).

"I'm mortified."

"You needn't be. It's quite natural."

I looked up at her again.

"Unless you deal with violence, or its results,on a daily basis, like Sherlock - "

"Like you," I said.

"Yes, like both of us. Unless you do that, it's a real, heart-stopping shock to see that mortality is often only a hair's breadth away from any of us, at any time."

A pause and we sipped our coffee.

"He'll be so mad I told you."

"No he won't because I don't see the need to mention it. Besides, I already knew."

My eyes widened as I put the mug down (stripey mug; at least three sugars), the steam and noise in the cafe calming my racing heart.

"John?"

"Never." She shook her head.

"This has happened before," she added, almost casually. "Near death in many guises with Mr Holmes."

"God."

"Once," said Molly Hooper, biting into a custard slice with pure joy in her eyes. "Once he convinced the whole world with it."

Oh. The Reichenbach thing. It all came back to me.

"I took the job," I said, remembering a million years ago when I realised data analysis wasn't my gig. "But I didn't know who my tenants were going to be."

We sat in silence for seconds, maybe hours. The coffee machine hissed, overpowering the gaggle of voices, the sudden outbreaks of raucous laughter, the scraping of chairs across lino and tinny radio on the shelf tuned into Capital. Molly hunched her shoulders over her mug, leaning her flushed cheeks into her hand and smiling across at me.

"I think you love it," she said, watching me just like Sherlock did.

And I felt the adrenaline, the fear, the assault to my calm, pedestrian little world slide away, and I felt a shift, a gear change, a slip into something new.

"Oh God, yes," I said, smiling back.

**~x~**

He continued to stare at his 'working wall' but I could tell by his posture that I'd irked him.

I put down the tea tray, arranging cups and saucers, attempting casual.

"It's just I haven't written her on the board for ages (since the day of the bullet in fact), so I just sort of wondered if she was OK."

I moved a teaspoon to the left, then put it back.

"Even Donovan's been over to Baker Street more often -"

"Thank you. I have emailed the client list for this morning."

He turned, arms folded tight across his chest; eyes dark and flinty.

"Miss Hunter at twelve is potentially a flight risk, so leave the latch on."

It appeared we were done.

Bill Wiggins tapped his cigarette onto the side of the bins to knock off the ash, pulling stray tobacco from between his teeth.

"I'd just leave 'im to it."

He flicked it across the yard where we were surveying the shed. Plumbing was almost done, but instead of a sense of achievement, discomfiture was weighing me down.

"You're telling me not to meddle."

"You know 'ow it went last time."

I folded my arms.

"He's OK with me now. He trusts me."

Bill took a deep drag, blowing smoke into the cooling evening where stars were just beginning to peep out.

"Seems hanging's no warning for some people eh?" he said, but not unkindly. "Sherlock's all up 'ere (tapping his temple), all cerebral an' that."

Was he? Was anyone?

"Thing is," continued Bill, inhaling a bit more, "if 'e's distracted then he don't fire on all cylinders; he don't get the job done."

"Distracted? You're saying Dr Hooper is a distraction?"

But even as I said the words I thought about the lost letter and the way he looked at her whilst NSY were tramping through his flat, and I knew it was true.

"But he has friends - people he cares about - and still manages to be a pretty impressive consulting detective!"

I was indignant for Molly, for Sherlock, even for myself. Bill Wiggins made to throw away his fag end, looked at me and thought better of it. His eyes were kind too, crinkled at the corners.

"Sometimes, you just gotta let things go down their own path. Sherlock don't like losing control, an' this thing he has for Molly, well he can't control it right now, but in time 'e'll learn to and things'll go back to normal."

I suppose he was trying his best, but at that moment, it was the saddest thing I'd ever heard.

**~x~**


	8. Appraisals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly are estranged and that's just the way it has to be.
> 
> Or is it?
> 
> Some people just don't take no for an answer.

**Chapter 8**

It was eight weeks in before I actually met him in person and it wasn't at Baker Street.

A miserable, drizzling day and I was dodging from shop to shop, knowing my jacket to be flimsily constructed and my brolly to be at home. Mostly I relied on home deliveries, but occasionally I was compelled to pick up specific and idiosyncratic items for Sherlock from crumbling and dusty emporiums definitely not featured in the tourist guides. My brief time living in the city had not equipped me with 'the knowledge' of London that Sherlock Holmes had accrued over the years. If it was not for his unbelievably heavy current caseload I might have suggested using that knowledge to fetch it himself, but I saw his pale face hunched over a screen and heard his bone-tired tread on the stairs and so stepped out into the rain to pick up some old and dusty book about rare poisonous sea horses. Mrs Hudson had been right about her tenants being 'persuasive', but not in the way I had imagined.

Down a litter-strewn alley _(ironically full of wheelie bins)_ a filthy, dark green doorway lurked like a crouching toad and could only be my destination. That, or a portal to Hell. Or both.

Collar turned up, I dodged broken bottles and crashed blindly through deep puddles. The door was surprisingly heavy and the shop predictably dark and dusty, but sagging shelves groaned with books and the shopkeeper looked friendly. I was also surprised to see another customer who was browsing through the espionage section.

As instructed, I passed Sherlock's card to the amiable, suit-wearing octogenarian behind the counter. He nodded, still smiling.

"Very good, one moment please." He stepped through a small door, disappearing from sight.

I stood, watching the water pool around my feet and wondering where I might realistically get a taxi in this neighbourhood (my phone was nearly dead, so an Uber seemed unlikely too).

"Do excuse the presumption," came a smoothly elocuted voice next to me, "but I suspect you may be in significant need of an umbrella."

The other customer, a tall, well-tailored middle-aged man smiled benevolently. I noted his watch chain to be real gold and his shoes to be too dry to have walked far to get here.

He held out a pale, well-manicured hand.

"Mycroft Holmes," he said. "How joyous to have met you at last."

**~x~**

I was happy as a clam to see Sherlock more like his normal self that evening.

True, he was still smoking and looked a degree thinner than my mothering side would have preferred, but his humour was piqued and his eyes glittered as he played some after dinner melodies for John.

"I can't believe he sent you out in that filthy weather today," commented the good doctor, possibly checking for a feverish complexion as he helped me stack the dishes.

"It's OK. It wasn't forecast to be honest, which is why I was caught out."

Sherlock paused to turn a page of manuscript before drawing his bow, slow and theatrical, across the strings.

"You made quite the impression as I understand it."

I paused, gravy-boat held mid-air.

"What?" John looked across.

"' _Encouragingly perceptive_ ' were the exact words used. Also, _'shamefully underused_ '." He put down the bow and laid the violin next to it.

"By my brother's standards, that is virtually a flirtation." He smirked, voice on the cusp of a tease.

"I was going to mention it, but was too busy wringing out my socks," I retorted, noting the merriment in John's eyes.

"Did he offer you money?" he asked.

"Certainly not! He was well behaved and charmingly civil if you must know."

They were both grinning now.

"As Mycroft's charm is considered almost mythical, I can only conclude a betrothal to be imminent."

"Goodness yes," added John. "Any chit chat without veiled threats could only really lead to romance."

"What did you tell him?" asked a highly amused Sherlock Holmes, picking up his violin once more. "Should we sweep the flat for cameras yet again?"

I gathered up both my dignity and the crockery and stalked towards the door.

"I told him you were both idiots and unworthy of his concern," I huffed, but only half-meaning it.

**~x~**

Sitting in Mycroft's leather lined Daimler as it swept almost noiselessly through the rain-sluiced streets all the way back to Baker Street had been both comfortable and hypnotic. I knew he would have checked out every aspect of my background before I'd even set foot in 221B, and that his curiosity to see me in person would have eventually resulted in a meeting.

I was particularly chuffed when he said I could keep the umbrella.

"I have many umbrellas," he said, smiling.

"You appear level headed which is a useful attribute when working with my brother," commented Mycroft Holmes as his driver held both the umbrella and the door for me to alight at Baker Street.

I was grateful for the lift but was wary of his motives (charming or not).

"I like him," I said. "He's very … _cerebral_." I tapped my temple, a mirror of Wiggins as he'd stood in the backyard weeks previously. "All logic, all deduction."

But for one moment, Mycroft's charming civil servant mask slipped, his face briefly clouded.

"No," he murmured. "Not _all;_ not Sherlock."

I listened to the click of the indicator and the syncopated _swoosh-swoosh_ of the windscreen wipers.

"Which is why I worry," he said, sighing.

**~x~**

"We _are_ sorry," John was holding the door open for me.

"Apologies for such infantile behaviour," added Sherlock, but I could still hear him playing ' _The Wedding March'_ as I clattered the tray down the stairs.

**~x~**

I've already confessed to a fair degree of stubbornness, misjudged lapses into imposing my ideas on others and a general aura of thinking I know best, and I feel this to be an honest appraisal of my faults.

_But are they faults?_

Surely, stubborn is another word for focused? And imposition could be seen as a determination to help? And people are, after all, often too blissfully unaware to really know what's good for them.

_Aren't they?_

It was my twelfth week at Baker Street and I wasn't entirely sure from Mrs Hudson's last _Skype (left part of her chin for the most part)_ if she would be back in the next four weeks or extend her trip further. She loved the dry heat _("my hip, dear")_ but had found one too many Huntsman spiders in the bathroom _("I shouldn't be able to see a spider's knees!")_ and couldn't be sure yet.

I speculated that, either way, time was running out.

Since the night I'd met his brother, Sherlock had retreated into a moody carapace of work and brooding. His cases were endless, his nights lengthy and with John staying at Mary's several nights each week, he had all the time in the world to think, and it wasn't always about the cases.

"I've brought you some coffee, and I made a carrot cake, so I thought - "

He was hunched on the middle seat of the sofa in a puddle of blue silk dressing gown, arms clasped around his folded legs, staring at the coffee table. As used as I was to his black moods, this looked well past the _'I need to go to my mind palace'_ phase.

"Thank you, no." _(at least manners were still intact)_

"Well, you didn't take dinner last night…"

He suddenly looked up at me, focused, brittle.

"Why would I want dinner when I'm not hungry?"

I shrugged and picked up the plate, turning to go whereupon he immediately stood up, following me to the door.

"I'm sorry," said Sherlock Holmes, "that was rude and you were kind."

His eyes were dull and face more angular than usual and I felt a catch in my throat because I'm not, you know, a _monster._

I reached into my pocket and opened out my palm.

"I know you'd run out of cigarettes again but I found these inside Billy the Skull when I was looking for the gas bill yesterday."

"John's hiding places have come full circle," he took the three _Benson's_ from me with the quirk of a smile, looking around. "Where is he? We were just talking about Milverton's trial."

John had been at Mary Morstan's since Sunday, but I just smiled.

"Open a window," I said. "I'm just popping out to the shops."

**~x~**

It was a chance I was now more than willing to take.

The steaming, busy coffee shop where I'd had a restorative beverage with Molly Hooper was closest to Bart's and where she had called a waitress by her name and didn't need to check the menu. The timing was risky, but I was prepared to wait the entire time of a potential lunch break. Obviously, when you're up to your elbows in viscera, you might just not stick to a predictable timetable, but I didn't know Molly's address and couldn't find a way to ask John as I knew he'd try and talk me out of it _(Bill W. ditto)_. Despite his supposed appreciation of me, I certainly didn't trust Mycroft enough yet to inquire, although I was sure he'd know Dr Hooper's passwords, National Insurance number and favourite colour in addition to where she lived. Often I wondered how well he knew the shape of his brother's heart.

So I sat in the noise and the bustle amidst the constant dings of the door bell which were never her.

Until they were.

She stood, hair pulled back and damp with rain, cheeks pinked and coat flapping as usual and saw me immediately.

"Coffee?" I smiled wide. "My turn."

She sat down, brown eyes wary but outwardly friendly as ever.

"I'd love to have coffee with you," she shook her umbrella, laying it behind the chair and smiled at me. "We always find something to chat about."

"It's about Sherlock," The words tumble out, unrestrained.

"It usually is," smiled Molly Hooper.

**~x~**

**Molly**

_She is so young, so intent, so like him in many ways. It's no wonder they get on. I can't imagine there are many twenty-three year olds who'd put up with a Baker Street regimen, but as I got to know her, I realised she couldn't be more perfect for the job. She misses very little and it was only perhaps the arrogance of youth that had previously messed things up for her._

_She'd looked at Sherlock and she'd looked at me and decided we just needed a little intervention to lead us to that happy ever after, but I have lived the battlefield with Sherlock Holmes and I know the kind of man he is._

_He is so strong, so bright, so thrumming with a dynamic, burning energy which can both heal and destroy. He can be the kindest and the cruellest, the most selfish and the most compassionate; he can fight to save a life yet throw away his own._

_Despite common assumption (probably fuelled by John's Blog), he actually has both brain and heart in equal measure and anyone who knows him personally eventually comes to understand that. Sherlock protects us but we also protect him, helping him to navigate a world which he can sometimes find a little too much. Just as his brain speeds ahead of most peoples', so do his emotions, so does his heart. We know how much he can cope with and how fine a balance it often is._

_We've tip-toed warily around each other for years, he and I. Ranging from dismissive and callous to trusting and respectful, our story has slowly grown, unfurled and emerged, blinking into the light and we are now true friends. We know his limits and acknowledge their restrictions but that does not usually influence our interactions._

_Recently, he has withdrawn from our friendship and I realise he must be struggling with that balance, and I respect that._

_There are many kinds of love and she is too young to really comprehend that what we share is enough. She cares so much, and I care enough for her to try and explain._

**~x~**

I listen to Molly as she explains things, and while I feel privileged that she would even try to open her relationship up to me, I'm not silenced.

"I'm not so sure." I sit back in my chair as Alice puts a froth-filled mug in front of me (my third).

She looks slightly surprised but doesn't interrupt.

"Lots of what you say - I can see it."

The mutual respect, the support, the very real and much striven for friendship - it was true; it was amazing.

She'd be quite entitled to tell me to piss off then, but she doesn't.

"You mustn't worry about me," she says, gentle, comforting. "You mustn't worry about Sherlock. He's always not sleeping or not eating, or firing bullets into the wall _(I knew it!)_ and he always comes out of it."

I swig my coffee, accepting the inevitable froth moustache it would entail and fearing she'd leave any minute, before I had a chance to say what I wanted to say. I took a breath.

"Molly I think you're brilliant, I think Sherlock's a ruddy genius, but I can't _unsee_ the way he looks at you when he thinks you can't see him."

Her hands are still and everything in that noisy place seems to slow and quieten, and I say:

"He doesn't look at you like a friend."

Her eyes are wary again, almost fearful.

"He looks at you like he wants to kiss you."

**~x~**


	9. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shed is now a summer house.
> 
> A unsafe place is now a bit safer.
> 
> Books now live on shelves.
> 
> Molly drops by for a chat.
> 
> Nothing ever stays the same.

**Chapter 9**

Week fourteen and the boys had been away in Sussex for three days dealing with the unfortunate family of Mr Robert Fergusson. Luckily for me, it had given me the opportunity not only to shampoo all of the carpets in the two flats and shared areas, but also complete my little garden shed project.

Plumbing was done, lighting was in, shelves were fitted and Bill Wiggins had even found me a large rug which fitted perfectly ( _he said "skip find" and I found no need to question him further, even though it did appear rather immaculate_ ) and Mrs Hudson's battered shed was now a comfortable, cosy storeroom which could be adapted for several purposes. I'd added a small table top which could be raised or lowered to make a surface for reading, writing or just eating a sandwich when you wanted to be alone. I'd found a blue velvet curtain tucked at the back of a bathroom cupboard which looked stylish trimmed with gold tassels I'd seen attached to a dress in a charity shop. Bill had also painted the interior a deep, cherry red which fairly glowed with warmth when the fairy lights were switched on.

We both leaned against its bright walls one evening, admiring our creation. Bill was smiling, as he often did when waiting for me to get to the point.

"Great job," I said. "It looks amazing. Finally!"

He offered me a fag, I refused. He then offered a can of Stella from one of his shell suit pockets which I accepted.

"When's she back then?" he murmured, cracking open his own (Fosters) and reading me like a book. "Sensed there was a bit of a rush on. "

I sighed. I'd been avoiding it for weeks but truthfully, Mrs Hudson had Skyped over a week ago; wheels were already in motion for her return to Baker Street.

"Soon. I wanted this little project finished for her. Now there's a place for everything."

"An' everything in its place eh?"

We stood in the fading light, swigging intermittently, listening to the evening traffic calming at last. It was as peaceful as central London ever got.

"I know what you're saying, so." I said, wondering if I should put the fairy lights on.

"You won't be 'happy till everyone's where you want 'em to be, will you?"

I shook my head.

"I'm ashes where I was fire," I said, dramatically. "I spoke to Molly and she's explained how things are between them. The game is over."

Bill grinned and shook his head before taking another swig.

"Nah, mate. I can see it in your face. The game is never over."

"Shut up," I smiled, in spite of myself, and we clinked a toast with our cans.

"You're OK, for a housekeeper," smirked Bill.

I felt my throat tighten; ridiculous.

"And you're OK," I replied, "for a tramp."

And we laughed as the redness of the sunset spread over the sky and Mrs Turner's birds settled into their roosts for the night.

God, I was going to miss it all.

**~X~**

Aborted filing system and bullet holes aside, the flat at 221B was not looking bad I told myself, looking around, cloth in hand.

Sherlock had, remarkably, organised his stacks of paper into a series of boxes in the corner, ordered to suit his own tastes and without a rainbow sticker in sight. I was more overjoyed than I should have been over this, but was careful not to draw too much attention to it.

The fridge was occasionally breached by dubious lab-style Tupperware, but the 'with lids and labels' policy I'd introduced had gone down pretty well (with John in particular) and allowed avoidance of nasty surprises when looking for the butter.

As well as the carpets, I'd managed to Vax the curtains and cushions without either of my tenants noticing. Although Sherlock had banned all vases and the few plants introduced had survived only a week at most (the succulent had actually turned a rather bright blue before shrivelling up which I couldn't entirely write off as neglect), the polished windows let in more light and the tiny cactus I'd sneaked onto the bookcase was battling through valiantly, despite everything.

Thanks to the whiteboards, milk and bread rarely ran out but most of the things Sherlock jotted down couldn't be found in Tesco.

The shower no longer leaked and Mrs Hudson's cook books could be displayed proudly in her kitchen on their new shelves. I'd even managed to get a guy in to sort the sprinkler system which seemingly hadn't worked for a decade (by the look of his signet ring and unusually expensive shoes, I did suspect Mycroft's involvement in this); a nice surprise for her when the insurance premium was renewed. I wasn't quite as confident of her gratitude for my reorganisation of her pantry and other store cupboards, but I guessed we'd cross that bridge when we came to it.

In five days.

I sighed again. Time was rushing by, and when I should have been spending time perusing Linkedin and Indeed for my next position (lifestyle guru? Upcycling blogger? cleaner?) I just mooched silently around the quiet house, touching things and feeling nostalgic about a place I'd barely lived in and people I'd only just met.

_God._

Get a grip.

**~x~**

Molly Hooper did occasionally still visit Baker Street, but tended to come when Sherlock was out to leave samples, equipment or 'borrowed' files with me or John. I was pretty sure he hadn't requested such elaborate avoidance, but she clearly felt it best.

On Thursday morning (four days left) therefore, it was quite a surprise to see her at my door with no prior arrangement and nothing in her rucksack. She wore jeans and a faded green Oxford University sweatshirt, her hair tied up messily and her face set most resolutely.

Molly gave a friendly smile when she greeted me, since she found it hard to be constantly resolute, and looked about the small kitchen in admiration.

"Goodness, what a collection of cookery books! Everything looks lovely. I used to cook all the time, before all the autopsies!"

She gave a little laugh, more nervous than usual, more edgy. "Although, some of the skills are probably transferable."

Then she looked at me, focused.

"I've been thinking about what you said, the other day."

My heart started hammering, but I wasn't going to rush her.

"And - and I think about - I see - "

I waited, quietly pushing across a cup of steaming tea.

"I see people, at the end of their lives, and - and I think, I wonder if you could tell me, if you could speak - would you regret some of the things you did in your life? Or - " She pushed back a stray strand of hair behind an ear, small mouth pursed in thought.

"Or, would you regret the things you didn't. The things you didn't do."

Molly looked up at me, slowly nodding, and I didn't dare breathe, until she said:

"I think I'm going to need your help."

Then it was my turn to nod and smile.

**~x~**


	10. Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, you need to walk the battlefield with Sherlock Holmes.

**Chapter 10**

John Watson, all suited and booted on his way out to meet Mary huddled beside me in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, all _sotto voce_ and eyes constantly darting to the door.

"You sure you've got everything sorted? It smells bloody amazing in here. Sorry I've not been much help."

"I shopped most of yesterday so I really do hope so," I whispered back, one ear cocked for the familiar cat-like tread, even though we both knew Wiggins had taken Sherlock down to the Embankment on a trumped up wild-goose chase involving a blind informant who lived on the streets. We also knew Sherlock would be almost immediately exasperated and leave, which didn't give us a whole heap of time.

John had showered at the surgery so hadn't been up to 221B yet. He checked his watch, glancing at the door once more.

"Would you mind?" He nodded upstairs. "I'd love to see before I go."

My pride got the better of me so I turned off the gas and beckoned him up to his own flat.

"You might not recognise it."

"That might not be a bad thing."

I slowly opened the door into their room (ever the dramatist) and was gratified to hear his intake of breath.

Curtains drawn and a flickering fire in the grate, the room fairly glowed with warmth and light from about thirty tea lights and candles arranged around it's nooks and crannies (even Billy was host to one of them). The air was suffused with a light scent of cinnamon and orange, a bowl of blood red chrysanthemums were carefully arranged on the coffee table (no vases, but I'd managed) and the dining table was a glittering arena of polished silver, white porcelain and starched linen. In addition to all of this, the low, sweet notes of Partita No. 1 drifted up from the speaker and an air of warmth, comfort and contentment ebbed and flowed in a gentle pulse.

"This," breathed John Watson, "is a work of art."

"I had some help," I admitted, arranging a knife I'd already arranged.

"Time to go," he said.

**~x~**

**Sherlock**

_"Looks like it was a bust then Shez ... Sherlock."_

_Wiggins shrugged before me, as if two hours of my time were worthless._

_"You win some, you lose some," he added, drawing deep on one of my cigarettes, which I felt justified in dashing to the ground (I didn't; apparently proffering understanding and kindness in the face of disappointment is the way to go. I remain unconvinced)._

_I sigh instead, pulling up my collar in the face of the drizzling rain that had cloaked London for the past twenty-four hours. Our housekeeper informs me that Mrs Hudson is missing such English weather and is counting the hours (thirty-six) before landing in the midst of it. Sentiment; it fools us every time._

_I stride quickly along Savoy Place up towards the Strand, Wiggins running to keep up whilst trying to text._

_"Well, you can't blame me. Langdale's a slippery little fella at the best o' times!"_

_"It seems odd he'd renege on such a lucrative offer. The reward money would have been considerable." I walked faster._

_"Blimey, you have to be so fast?"_

_"I have time to make up, thanks to this."_

_We walk in merciful silence for the next two minutes until:_

_"You're pretty moody these days, Sherlock."_

_I didn't answer until we passed Charing Cross Police station, which reminded me I still had Lestrade's ID._

_"John prefers me moody; apparently the readers of his Blog like it."_

_The rain had stepped up a notch and I walk faster. Cabs were extremely elusive in this weather._

_"Nah," he huffed, leaping over a puddle. "It's more than moody mate, you're … sad. Even with the mad number of cases and sending Milverton down last week - you got this sadness washing over you."_

_As easily dismissed as this should have been, I knew it was ill-advised to ignore the psychoanalysis of this particular network member. Wiggins was impressively intuitive and insightful, which was both surprising and irritating in equal measure._

_We walked towards the Cavell Memorial._

_"I'm not sad," I say. "I'm busy and irritated when my time is wasted."_

_But I am sad. Melancholia tugs at my days like water weeds, dragging me down to a place even a seven percent solution cannot reach._

_Is this what it's like? To have an emptiness within you which you strive to hide each day in trying to maintain a semblance of self, which apparently fails to convince a flop house habitue (even an intuitive one)._

_"Anyway," I add, squinting through the rain, being moody, being Sherlock Holmes. "I'm sure you'd have a cure for whatever ails me."_

_We have reached Leicester Square where it appears that Wiggins has more important business to attend to._

_"Not this time mate. You're gonna 'ave to try a more natural approach," he was walking away, tapping a hand across his chest._

_"Start in here, an' see where it takes ya."_

_Then, yelling through the howls and drunken laughter of a nearby stag party:_

_"Get yourself 'ome - it's a filthy night!"_

_A wave and he disappears amongst umbrellas and tourists, like the urban wraith he is._

_All the way along Regent's Street, my brain whirrs and parries unwelcome thoughts._

_When did I begin needing the solicitations of others in order to justify my existence? Establish my happiness? Once you let one in, it becomes more difficult to detach from the melee and the inevitable complications that arise from distraction._

_Crossing Piccadilly Circus and striding blindly past Eros, I consider John Watson as the catalyst (I could never again detest Mycroft sufficiently after John had opened me up to his own brand of tolerance). Mrs Hudson, an interminable irritant at times, poignantly maternal at others; my own parents, so blunderingly oblivious yet providing indefatigable love and support whenever allowed to. Irene Adler; intoxicating, overwhelming and almost fatally distracting._

_Collectively then: exhausting, often confusing, and for the most part, not usually conducive to a line of work such as mine._

_But as the rain at last begins to lessen at Oxford Circus, adding sheen to a fairly deserted Oxford Street, I too slow my pace and allow myself to confront a truth that has recently pursued me through my nights and days._

_Molly._

_Our days, our months, our years of acquaintance; so familiar, so comforting, so reliable. Even through excruciating Christmas parties, inexplicable engagements, through death and then resurrection, I knew she would always be there._

_Molly's strength and unequivocal friendship has, I am ashamed to say, been ignored, taken advantage of, gradually appreciated and then become an utterly essential part of my own life._

_I stop next to a small gate leading into a darkening garden in Portman square, listening to the sweep of wind through wet branches, hearing birdsong as the raindrops dwindled._

_An essential part of my own happiness._

_('Start in 'ere an' see where it takes ya')_

_An essential, actual joy._

_I reach out a hand, holding the railings to tether me to the earth I stand on._

_What was I doing? Logic itself would denigrate the idiot who pushed away the tenet of his own happiness._

_I start walking again, thinking, thinking._

_In my work I have seen so much disregard by mankind for itself; so much disdain displayed, so much pain inflicted._

_I walk faster._

_So surely, if there exists even a kernel of joy out there in the darkness, then would it be the logical choice to push it away?_

_As I cross Dorset street, I begin to run._


	11. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home is where the heart is.

**Chapter 11**

My heart nearly leaps out of my chest when I hear the front door slam and then him, calling my name.

"I'll be up in a minute!" I yell, hearing the heaviness of his rain-sodden coat in the creak of the ancient coat rack. "Just go on up!"

He probably wanted a cup of tea.

Well, he wouldn't be getting it from me.

I heard the stairs give, two at a time, sensing an urgency I hadn't accounted for. Had Bill said anything even slightly incriminating? Was the game up before it had even begun?

I stood, holding my breath at the bottom of the stairs, listening as he threw open his flat.

Silence (but for Bach).

"Hello, Sherlock," said Molly Hooper, like a soothing balm on a stormy night. "I sort of made you dinner."

And then he gently closed the door.

**~x~**

**Sherlock**

_The room, my room._

_The heat from many candles and a glowing fireplace rolls across my face, my body and I almost feel steam rising from my damp hair and clothes._

_The table is immaculately populated with items I neither own nor recognise, a deep red burst of chrysanthemums at its centre. Their scent is heady, intoxicating, thickening the air and I am dizzy with it._

_Mingled, weaving their way through the flowers are herbs - thyme, coriander, parsley, sage, then garlic and butter and the warmth of spice. It appears to originate from my kitchen. This is not usual for my kitchen._

_Bach and the warmth of the room draws me further in, stepping across, dropping my keys, my phone on the coffee table. It is laden with a ruby red Merlot, bottle and two glasses glinting in the candle light._

_Sensory. Everywhere. All at once._

_"Sit down, I'll pour," says Molly Hooper, and I do._

_New dress (cherry red, silk, collar, sleeves, exquisite), bought very recently as it allowed for recent weight loss (four pounds, maybe five). Home manicure, but older (favourite) varnish as slightly gathered in the cuticles. Also, fresh as her off duty decreed she worked yesterday. Her face (sleepless night last night) is dappled by flickering light and she wears her mother's gold bee earrings (sentiment; comfort) but no lipstick. I look and look, but she doesn't mind my silence._

_"I'm indecently smug that I managed to surprise you," she smiles, leaning over to pour, holding back a skein of silken hair, dark lashes brushing her cheek. "Although I know you're not entirely fond of surprises."_

_She holds forth a glass, brown eyes assessing, infinitesimally uncertain but strong and unflinching, so I reach up, taking it, brushing her fingers against my own and my heart springs into life and pounds in my ears. (Oh!) … and it is then, at that very moment, amongst the candles and the Bach and the soft, velvet eyes of Molly Hooper, that I finally know, and it will not be contained._

_"I love you," I say. "Molly, I love you."_

_And I smile, because it is exhilarating, it is freeing, it is true._

**_~x~_ **

_**Molly** _

_Oh the millions of fearful seconds that vibrate through me as I wait for him to speak, to respond, to address the whole insane situation._

_And then he does, and it's like his words just spill out, surprising him, surprising me._

_But that smile - letting me know how much it pleases him; how the idea is just so brilliant and outstandingly clever, like he's just invented love and needs the world to know about it all - that smile disarms me._

_Putting down the bottle, I half sit, half slump into the sofa and exhale._

_"Ok," I breathe, trembling slightly (as one might). "That's very convenient, since I've loved you for always. Forever."_

_There was a pause and we let a little Partita fill the gap._

_"Well," remarks Sherlock Holmes (solver of crimes, breaker of rules, love of my life) "I may need to give Wiggins a raise."_

_We drink(I'm afraid I glug) the excellent Merlot and he looks at me again with everything he has, and I know it's going to be alright._

_"So," I sweep a hand about his sitting room. "You're OK, with all this?"_

_"I barely recognise my own home. Everything you've done … it is both utterly unexpected and unbelievably welcome." He looks around, still processing, still appraising._

_"I had help." I couldn't take the credit. She had been so wonderful. "Your housekeeper."_

_Sherlock sits back in his seat, smiling, happy, relaxed, open._

_"She has made … quite the impression."_

_"She's wonderful."_

_He looks down, placing his glass carefully, glancing at his files in the corner of the room._

_"Yes." (mercurial eyes, glittering, glowing) "Yes. She has my measure."_

_"Mine too. Ten years of knowing you and this is only happening now. I don't think this would have happened without her."_

_We sit momentarily, taking it all in and I'm suddenly aware of this loaded set up I've cunningly engineered. I stand, bustling, moving towards the oven._

_"So there's dinner."_

_I'm bright and breezy and Sherlock smiles at me, his phone beeping regularly, his phone ignored._

_"I'm not hungry," he stands, holding out a hand._

_But I've already opened the oven door and suddenly, inexplicably, an ear piercingly loud beeping bursts forth from the ceiling and then water, cascading down, pouring over us, over everything, drenching it all._

**_~x~_ **

Internally I'm screaming, but I consider there's been enough noise this night and therefore decide to keep my hysterics to myself.

The fire brigade have left, the sprinklers have been disarmed, the sitting room is ruined and I'm now sharing Mrs Hudson's upcycled garden shed and misting up its little windows with the two people I attempted to shove together this evening.

I think longingly of data handling as I realise that Mrs Hudson will shortly be arriving after a 24 hour flight to a damp 221 Baker Street, and has yet to write me a reference.

Molly hands me a cup of steaming tea (at least the electrics and plumbing work well enough in here) and pats my shoulder. She's a hero and I'd marry her tomorrow myself if Sherlock's eyes weren't all aglow over her every move. It's little wonder the sprinklers were set off.

I sigh.

"It's going to be OK," she said, sitting on an upturned beer barrel and pretending her sodden silk dress was of little concern.

"John and Mary will be back any minute with the dehumidifiers. We'll have it dried in a couple of hours."

"Probably nearer to twenty four," commented Sherlock Holmes, hair plastered down, shirt damp but as cheerful as I'd ever seen him.

He caught Molly's frown, however, adding:

"Perhaps less though. There's a change in the air and tomorrow promises … mmm ... bright sunshine?"

But I leaned against the blue tasselled curtain and sighed again.

I'd been too ambitious, climbed too high, like Icarus. Already depressed about leaving my Baker Street menagerie, I couldn't lift myself out of this.

"Those sprinklers were a little over sensitive," remarked Molly, sipping at her tea sweetly, as if she wasn't squeezed into a tiny garden shed between her heart's desire, a sack of potatoes, and me.

Sherlock was tapping on his phone, emails pinging left and right.

"Obviously Mycroft's doing and what he commonly regards as humour. Any way he can discourage my smoking or experimenting here and he'll take it."

He showed me a blurry picture of the engineer and his van's number plate, as well as several invoices and a letter on Ministry notepaper.

"God, his signet ring should have told me. And the shoes: way too expensive."

"You weren't to know the intricately layered levels of my brother's interference. A slow day at Whitehall allows the devil to make work for idle hands. He'll be laughing all the way to the Diogenes about this particular victory."

I sighed again.

"I ruined your lovely dinner."

Leaning forward across my prized foldy-down table, I put my head in my hands. I'd been so obsessed about pushing them together, I'd made a hell of a lot of assumptions along the way.

"You both have every right to be furious about the sprinklers but also my … my …"

"Conspiring?" supplied Sherlock.

"Plotting with good intentions." suggested Molly.

"Contriving, perhaps?" suggested Sherlock, but his eyes were kind.

"Indeed you have," he added, softly. "And look how very successful you have been." He gestured to Molly. "We have been remiss."

"We've been absolutely useless," confirmed Molly gently.

"You have schemed as successfully as some of my more prosperous criminal adversaries," mused Sherlock, pouring me some leftover Merlot and pushing it across the small table.

"And I must do nothing but thank you for it. For years I created a construct to preserve my clarity of mind and all it did was deny my own heart. A good man (and a good detective) is nothing without both. Logic dictates that to do well in this world, we need to be happy." He looked at Molly and I knew it had been worth it.

"I'd do it again in a heartbeat," I said, boldly, and I meant it.

"I don't doubt it," he laughed.

There was a sudden fumbling and scuffling outside in the yard and I could hear multitudinous voices, one of them John Watson's.

"Take two upstairs Wiggins! Joe, you and Terry put one in the kitchen and one in Mrs Hudson's bedroom down here."

More fumbling and clunking (and a fair bit of swearing) and the door was suddenly pulled open by a bright, smiley fair-haired woman wearing a beanie hat and a knowing expression. She looked directly at me.

"Hi, lovely to meet you at last and how atrocious that this was the first time! I think John's ever so slightly scared of what I might have said to you! Hey, Sherlock! Molly! Do you have any wine in here? You two look like you've come to your senses, thank God! Your mooning about the flat was getting a bit much Sherlock … seriously, is there any wine? It's lovely in here! Cosy!"

"Hello Mary," said Sherlock. "Why don't you come in? There's absolutely no room, but I'm sure that won't stop you."

So she did.

**~x~**


	12. Endings and beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Hudson has a few words on her housekeeper's final day.

**Chapter 12**

She was no more tanned than the day she'd left nearly sixteen weeks ago, but Mrs Hudson, my employer, looked rested and restored. I thought I'd begin our 'hand-over chat' (as she called it) by telling her so.

"Oh no dear, I never had a full night's sleep the whole time I was there."

"Your brother in law's illness?"

"Oh no, he was as good as gold." She leaned in, adjusting her clipboard. "It was just too quiet! Dead. Nothing but tree frogs chirruping each night. No comings and goings; no dramatics."

"Oh?"

"Yes. The highlight of my week was the flying doctor landing in the field every Thursday. It was lovely spending some time with Dorothy but there was never so much as a scorpion in my shoe to get excited about."

"Any koalas?"

"A few, but quite dull to be frank dear; not the brightest of creatures," She tapped her nose with her pen. "Overrated if I'm honest."

We'd been through quite a few clipboard queries and mercifully (thanks to the dehumidifiers and a delayed connection with the flights) the remaining hint of damp was barely noticeable. She'd approved the sturdiness of the bookshelves, the whiteboards ("Sherlock used them?" Goodness me!") and the regeneration of the garden shed ("I never thought I'd manage to have a summer house in the city dear!")

She was also cheered by the lack of livestock and biological detritus stored in her white goods ("you never knew what you were going to stumble across in the salad drawer") and was most surprised at my liaison with Mycroft.

"He's a cold fish that boy; Sherlock's always been the emotional one," she decreed as we finished our tea and our hand over.

"Really?" I remembered my first few weeks at Baker Street only too vividly.

"Oh yes," she was fumbling in a small travel bag covered in travel stickers. She'd certainly been out of London before.

"Love does that to you."

My eyes widened.

"You knew? About Dr Hooper?"

"Goodness me dear, I knew before he did."

I nodded. We actually all knew before he did.

"Sherlock's a genius dear, but that doesn't mean he knows who he is half the time. He's just lucky he's got all of us."

She pushed a brightly coloured bag across to me, covered in anthropomorphic antipodean animals.

"To help you at your next position. You've really done very well in this one."

Decorated with more kangaroos and dull koalas it was my very own clipboard, and looking at it almost made me weep.

**~x~**

I'd been awake since five, staring at the crack in the ceiling as dawn slowly lightened a sleeping London.

I'd offered Mrs Hudson her room back immediately but she kindly refused, taking Sherlock's vacant room for the last few days of my tenure ("there's absolutely no rush dear and I'd appreciate your help since jet lag doesn't really agree with my hip"). We all politely pretended he was staying down in Farnham whilst dealing with the Violet Smith business, but I suspect everyone had made their own deductions.

Thus, here I was, on my last morning in a job I could never have imagined taking, having met people I could never have imagined meeting, and generally having had the most remarkable and amazing time of my life.

And how I was going to miss it.

My parents had forwarded several offers of work from their more curious friends who suddenly 'needed' a housekeeper or a personal assistant. I suspected my parents of perhaps getting a little loose lipped over Bridge in regard to my famous tenants so I politely refused all. Perhaps I was only a bank loan and a business plan away from starting my own housekeeping business? Perhaps this was the push I needed? Perhaps I'd get over Baker Street one day and settle down with a normal life?

God.

The pigeons had been nesting in Mrs Turner's guttering these last few weeks and I had got rather attached to their gentle cooing as it usually coaxed me out of bed to make breakfast. I signed and threw back the duvet, feet to the nubbly carpet for the last time, and shuffled out into Mrs Hudson's kitchen.

I was surprised to see her up and about, bustling and breakfast making, and a little sad, as I'd wanted to concoct a final repast for everyone.

"Do get dressed dear," she smiled, wiping her hands on the apron I'd worn daily for the last four months. "I'm making, but you're doing the taking." She twinkled."The boys have asked for you especially. Hurry up now!"

It looked like any typical 221B breakfast scene, and in my advanced state of nostalgia I was quietly delighted.

John at the table in his cable knit, answering FAQs from the blog whilst Sherlock was clearly having a text war with his brother, denoted by him throwing the phone down on the soft furnishings between every exchange. Their mutual passion for having the last word frequently prolonged things to a ridiculous degree. I laid down tea, eggs, muffins and honey, earning a grateful smile from John.

"Which of Sherlock's dressing gowns do you think 'inspire him the most'? I'm veering between the blue, the purple and the I-don't-give-a-damn. The things people want to know!"

I mused as I poured the tea.

"He doesn't have a purple one."

"He does in his Mind Palace," he replied, typing rapidly. "Just be grateful I've shared one of the less offensive queries."

With his much maligned mobile hitting the sofa for the final time, Sherlock appeared to conclude his wranglings and hopped cheerfully over the coffee table for a cup of tea. He seemed to vibrate with an energy and a radiance that was almost contagious.

"Please sit and have coffee with us," offered the good doctor, shutting his laptop, abandoning the blog for toast. "Sherlock's current state of incandescent joy is a little too much to cope with first thing and we'd both like to thank you, for everything you've done."

Ignoring his flatmate's gentle teasing, Sherlock waved me to a chair and actually poured my tea.

"Your homemade marmalade will be mourned more each passing day," he sighed.

I smiled.

"Good job I've left you both six jars downstairs then."

"Thank God," remarked John, butterlng toast.

"And Mrs Hudson has my recipe for lavender biscuits."

"Heaven be praised!"

"Also, your third best coat has been repaired and just needs collecting from Jereym Street," I said to Sherlock. "Turns out they had some of the lining after all."

"My goodness, we are really going to miss this," remarked John passing muffins. His eyes were as kind and sincere as the day I had met him and I couldn't fully meet them.

"No," said Sherlock, lifting a golden thread of honey on his spoon. We both looked at him.

"Sorry?"

"I said no. Almost. Very close, but not this time."

He put down the spoon and turned to me, his eyes bright and inviting the questions.

"You. You're not about to go anywhere."

I stared at him.

"I - we would like you to stay."

John was staring too, but a small smile was forming.

"Those texts," he said. "Mycroft."

"As previously noted," continued Sherlock Holmes,"my brother has taken rather an interest in your … aptitude, and agrees wholeheartedly with me. It would be most beneficial to all parties if you remained at Baker Street, this time in my employ."

My mind was racing.

"But … but … Mrs Hudson? You already have a housekeeper. I couldn't …" I put down my muffin, untouched.

"You wouldn't," smiled Sherlock, like a deal was already done. "You wouldn't be my housekeeper. You'd be my assistant."

I had no words.

"It all makes a lot of sense," added John. "I work four days a week at the surgery and all this (gesturing across laptops, files and acres of text books) needs someone who knows what they're doing."

"Someone with perception, with foresight and deductive reasoning," continued Sherlock, "as well as someone with remarkable insight into the workings of the human heart."

He nodded.

"That someone is most certainly you," he smiled, holding out his hand. "Do you think you could work with us? There might be upheaval, disarray, chaotic filing systems…"

My heart was hammering and I wanted to laugh and cry and run away and stay right where I was.

"There could be danger," he finished, and I was nodding wildly. "Are you in?"

"I am," I breathed, shaking the hand of the world's only consulting detective who was now also my boss.

"I really, really am."

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: Thank you so very much for reading and taking the time to comment on this little whimsy - it really does mean the world to hear back.
> 
> Should there be further adventures? Do let me know. :)
> 
> Until next time ...
> 
> E. x


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